


Nerves

by orphan_account



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:08:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23684422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jaskier gets nervous before his debut in a professional bard competition. Thankfully Geralt is there to help him out.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 124





	Nerves

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: mystic-majestic

Whilst the Academy of Oxenfurt had boasted many a bardic competition for their students—all of which Jaskier had eagerly participated in—nothing could have prepared him for this.

The crowds were shouting and jeering, stomping their feet on the floor until the foundations of the arena shook. Peeking around the curtain he saw a writhing sea of people. He pulled back, stomach writhing, and he hoped he wouldn’t throw up on the floor. Those weren’t the kind of memories he wanted for his official debut in a professional competition.

“Geralt, I don’t think I can do this.”

“What’s the matter? You have your songs, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Then what else do you need?”

There were more people out there in that arena than Jaskier had ever seen in one place. The academy had only opened its doors to stuffy intellectuals—and journalists, he remembered in distaste, who were always ready to pick apart everything to the barest detail. It was part of the experience to have at least one scathing review from a pompous journalist who couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket…

He remembered how excited he had been seeing the flyer stuck to the outer gates of Novigrad. Having graduated from Oxenfurt two years ago, Jaskier had spent his first three months out on the road alone before he had met Geralt, planning to earn his way from inn to inn from Oxenfurt, circling around the Continent as far as he dare go, and making his way back up to Novigrad in time for the annual competition.

But then Geralt had happened.

The competition had been shoved out of his mind at the promise of adventures with Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf of Rivia. The allure of fixing his reputation until all could see the goodness, the humanity, that sat not so far under the surface. At first it had been a matter of pride; he wanted to sing them both into fame, he wanted to pen the songs that people would sing generations after he was dead and buried. But the longer he spent with Geralt, the more he wanted others to see what he did.

Geralt had become his best friend, and not long later, his lover. And if there was one thing Jaskier could not abide by it was standing back and watching people hurt those he cared about. The songs poured free from him at once, almost writing themselves. Even the remotest villages opened up their doors to Geralt once those songs became popular. They sung the songs back to Jaskier as they pressed food and ale into their hands, offered up beds and baths in their inns, and they didn’t overcharge anymore.

The songs had worked. The songs were _good_. And yet—

“I’ve never performed for so many people at once,” he admitted. “Maybe fifty at most. Geralt, there have to be thousands of people out there—”

“And the way they have lit the stage prevents even me from being able to see a single one of them.” Geralt clapped a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. Coming from him, it was like being wrapped up in a great big bear hug. “You will do fine. Once you start singing, you’ll forget everything else.”

“I wish I had your confidence right now, Geralt.” The warning creak of wood alerted Jaskier to the fact that he was hugging his lute a little too tightly. He quickly loosened his grip. “What if I stuff up? What if I forget the lyrics?”

“You won’t forget the lyrics. You know them better than anyone else. Jaskier, stop this. All you’re doing is working yourself up.”

“I can’t just stop being anxious, Geralt! That’s not how that works.” He stepped in until he was pressed against Geralt’s side, didn’t care when Geralt tensed up as he usually did when he did not expect physical contact. “Comfort me, Geralt.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do.” After a moment, Geralt put an arm around Jaskier. There was no one around, which was why Geralt was allowing this. They were still working on getting him comfortable with public displays of affection. “You’ve shot down every comforting thing I’ve said.”

That was true. “I—sorry. I’m sorry. This is just—it’s scary, Geralt. This is different than the competitions I was in during my time at the academy, or all those inns we’ve stayed at. I know I’ve made a name for myself in the villages. But this is a chance to get myself immortalised. Out there,” he waved a hand in the general direction of the audience behind the red velvet curtains, “out there sit all the greatest bards currently alive. They are the people I grew up listening to. I wanted to be just like them. And I’m not stupid enough to think that one competition is going to elevate me to the same status—it took them years to get where they are—but those are my heroes and I’m going to be _singing to them_. This is my first impression on them. I can’t—I don’t want to stuff it up.”

Geralt was silent.

Jaskier sniffled. “I—I know it probably sounds stupid, but—”

“It’s not. Stupid, I mean. I’m just coming to understand just how much this really means to you.”

“Pfft. Geralt, I’ve talked about little else since I found the flyer—”

“Talking is basically all you do. When it comes to your music, you puff up like a peacock and strut around without a care, all confidence and arrogance. It all seemed to come so effortlessly to you.”

“I wish it did, Geralt. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like puking right now.”

“A façade,” Geralt agreed. And if anyone was familiar with those, it would be him. “So adopt one now. You’re not going to see a single person’s face out there. Trust me, if it’s hard to tell for me, the crowd is sitting in pitch darkness for you. Make that darkness out to be whatever you want it to be; another inn. Our campsite where you won’t shut the fuck up and let me sleep.” He jumped a little as Jaskier poked his belly in retaliation. “Just forget what it really is and make it out to be whatever you want.”

“Wow, Geralt, that was almost wise of you.”

“Mmm,” Geralt grumbled.

Jaskier snorted. “And there’s the Geralt I know and love.” He pulled back and pressed a chaste kiss to Geralt’s lips. “Thank you.”

“All bards into position!” shouted a plump woman holding a clipboard, her unruly black hair shoved back with a headband. The coordinator. Behind her followed a line of bards like a bunch of lost baby ducks. At once, Geralt and Jaskier sprung apart. “Witcher, you’ll have to go now.”

“See you after the competition,” said Geralt. “Break a leg out there.”

* * *

Jaskier didn’t win the competition.

He didn’t forget his lyrics, nor did he puke on stage. When he returned backstage and accepted the honey tea the coordinator handed him to soothe his throat, his heart was full of the knowledge that he had given it his very best. A lot of his lyrics got sung back to him which had been a surprise. Toss A Coin had gotten the biggest response out of all three of his songs.

When all the bards had gotten their chance to sing their songs, there was a half-hour deliberation, during which Geralt had snuck back behind the stage to make sure he didn’t shake apart at the very seams. The coordinator had not been pleased about that but who would dare stand toe to toe with a witcher and tell him what he could and could not do?

Deliberation over, Geralt returned to his seat in the arena, and all bards were lined up. There were only three cash prizes—250 crowns to third place, 500 to second, and 1000 to first, along with trophies—and the rest would receive a blue ribbon to congratulate them on their participation.

Jaskier won third place.

“I knew you could do it,” said Geralt warmly, his eyes bright with pride, when Jaskier had bounded over to him to show off his trophy. “You did well, little lark.”

Third place had never felt better than first.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed!!


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